Hebridean White

There’s a thick layer of snow dusting the ground when Harry leaves the warmth of his cottage, soft rays of dawn light escaping between the heavy clouds above. It’s early- significantly earlier than Harry would historically prefer- but sleeping late into the morning is a luxury he easily sacrificed. He doesn’t particularly get much restful sleep these days.

His breath warms the cold air in front of his face in short, visible puffs as he begins the long trek across town. Predeal is small, with a population just barely large enough to earn it the classification of a town rather than that of a village. It’s a magical town nestled within a small valley, boasting a residential population of nearly 3,000 witches and wizards. Most are healers, blacksmiths, or tailors native to Romania. 

A small percentage of the close-knit community are foreign-born. Like Harry, some hail from the British Isles. Most others are from France or Bulgaria, with the odd Norwegian mixed in. Luckily for him, nearly every resident has a rudimentary understanding of the English language. Even after a year of living in the country, his Romanian is quite shit.

The fresh snow crunches loudly beneath the dark dragonhide of his boots. He’s wearing his thickest set of robes, as is required in the harsh climate of winter so high in the Carpathian mountains. Wool lines the inside of his robes and the hood of his cloak, which is pulled up to cover most of his head. There’s a mask attached to the neckline that could be used to warm the lower half of his face, if he ever bothered to pull it up. He prefers to watch his breath cloud the air in front of him. The mask usually causes his glasses to fog up, anyways.

Harry clenches and relaxes his hands where they rest at his sides, feeling the dragonhide leather of his gloves stretch and tighten against his fingers. His fingers are cold, but they aren’t quite numb yet. A warming charm would help. But he rather likes the sharp bite of the frigid morning air.

He passes the last building at the far end of the town, following the footpath deeper into the looming mountains. The cottage is still dark, no hint of light or life displayed behind the small windows. None of the townsfolk are awake this early. Or, at the very least, none have bothered to leave their homes yet. It’s barely 6 am, after all. 

He spots a distant figure on the footpath ahead of him, a blur of black robes against the stark white of the snow. A smile splits across his face as he catches a flash of bright red hair.

“Charlie!” He calls out, quickening his pace to a light jog. Snowflakes catch on the lens of his glasses, obscuring his vision with tiny droplets of water.

The figure halts, turning around with a dramatic swish of robes. Harry’s breath clouds the air in short, fast puffs as he slows to a walk beside the taller man.

“Wotcher, Harry,” Charlie says with a crooked grin. 

“Hiya,” Harry replies. His cheeks are warm- definitely just flushed with cold and nothing else- as he greets the wizard. 

The pair fall quickly into step with an ease that comes from months of routine. They share a comfortable, practiced silence as they follow the stone path. Charlie’s not much of a talker to begin with and Harry doesn’t particularly have much to say these days.

Charlie’s sporting similar robes to Harry, made from thick material, lined with wool and reinforced with dragonhide. His boots are older and more worn than Harry’s, as are his gloves. Unlike Harry, his hood is down, exposing the slight pink of his fair skin against the frigid winter air. His hair is a richer shade of red than Ron’s- no, Harry is definitely not comparing, he’s only making note of the difference- and it's tied up in a messy bun at the base of his neck. Scars are scattered across the slivers of exposed skin between his clothes, various burns and scratches and injuries that come from years of working with certain subset of dangerous magical creatures. 

“First snow of the year,” Charlie notes. Harry hums softly at the observation. 

It’s mid-October, just over a year since Harry had spontaneously decided to move across the continent to the harsh mountain range. He has no regrets in that regard. But it feels odd, that it has been over a year. A year without Ron and Hermione. The Weasleys. Ginny. Teddy and Andy. Nearly a year and a half since the Battle of Hogwarts. A year and a half since Remus, and Fred, and Tonks, and Snape and Colin and Lavender and-

He tries not to think about it.

It’s the first snow of the year, after all.

The dragons will be particularly calm today. It should be a nice change of pace from their usual chaotic behavior. 

He mentions this to Charlie.

“I suppose they might be a bit calmer with the cold. I’m sure a few of them will be particularly sleepy,” Charlie agrees. He shoots Harry a glance, one eyebrow raised slightly.

“Don’t get your hopes up too high, though. You should know by now that the dragons are unpredictable. You can never expect a calm day at the sanctuary.”

Harry huffs a laugh. Of course, the older man is right. The calmest mornings often lead to the most chaotic of days. 

They’ve left the village far behind at this point, now hiking along a path that skirts around the mountain. There’s a rickety wooden fence to their right, just barely blocking off the steep edge of a rocky cliff. Harry brings himself a little closer to the solid security of the stoneface to his left. 

The sky is beginning to brighten further, warm oranges and pinks dusting the clouds as the sun breaches the high mountain skyline. Harry inhales a sharp breath as they make their way around the final bend of the rocky footpath. 

It’s a feeling that Harry still isn’t quite used to, even after a full year of mornings graced by the sensation. He can feel the warmth of the sanctuary as they approach, permeating the brisk air and melting the dusting of fresh snow from the ground. The air, the stone, the very mountain is buzzing and pulsating with ancient magic. Wild magic. 

There’s a jagged fissure in the cliff face ahead of them, opening a gaping hole that seems to enter into the heart of the mountain itself. He takes a deep breath as they make their way towards the cave, feeling the gentle relief of warm air in his lungs.

As they step into the womb of the mountain, he forgets about the month, the year, the war, the people. There is no place for that here. It is, after all, a sanctuary.

The largest dragon sanctuary in the known world is tucked securely within the depths of the Carpathian mountains, nestled within a vast aperture along a cliff face that is just a short hike above the Prahova valley. The primary entrance to the Romanian Dragon Sanctuary is deceivingly small, seeming barely large enough to accommodate a young Welsh Green dragon. Harry can barely suppress a smile as the pair step easily through the buzzing wall of wards stretched across the jagged fissure.

The short tunnel widens dramatically to reveal the hollow expanse of the mountain. It’s shockingly loud, busy, populated with soaring dragons, gusts of wind accompanied by the flapping of leathered wings, bursts of fire and heat and magic. Even so early in the morning, Harry and Charlie aren’t the first sanctuary workers to have arrived. Some of the dragon keepers soar above them on the backs of their bonded dragons, beginning the day with an early expedition in search of injured dragons across the wilds of the mountain range.

Despite one’s expectations, the sanctuary itself is not dark or humid or chilled. The growing light of dawn streams in through gaping openings in the rock hundreds of feet above. Heat radiates from the smooth stone below, summoned by ancient spells of long-dead wizards, maintained by the current set of researchers and dragon keepers at the sanctuary. A bubble of magic covers the exposed openings, insulating the sanctuary from inclement weather while allowing their dragons ample space to fly in and out when they so choose, secure tracking wards monitoring their activity. 

Several smaller, uneven fissures along the inner stone walls of the sanctuary make way for hidden nooks and wizard-made tunnels. The tunnels house various sanctuary efforts and projects, from the research workstations of dragonologists, to recovery spaces monitored by healers, to breeding dens and training spaces maintained by the dragon keepers. 

Harry follows Charlie down the stone carved steps that wrap around the edge of the sanctuary, the pair making their way towards a sector that primarily houses the breeding dens. While Harry is still an apprentice, with no designated project or area of focus, Charlie is considered a rather experienced dragon keeper. His passion and primary oversight lies in caring for the incubating eggs, young hatchlings, and female dragons.

Female dragons, as it turns out, are not Harry’s area of expertise. They are exceptionally protective, aggressive, and far more prone to injuring their handlers- hence Charlie’s rather extensive assortment of scars and burns. Luckily, the scars are- mostly- several years old. Dragon keepers who work within the dens must take extra care to form bonds with the females and young mothers, learning their behaviors and gaining their trust. Thanks to Charlie’s extensive research and carefully-forged bonds with most of the females, he hasn’t received a life-threatening injury in several years. Smaller injuries are, of course, unavoidable in the profession.

Harry sucks in a sharp breath as a growl sounds above them, the loud beating of wings whipping strands of long dark hair across his face. A small female Hungarian Horntail soars over them, cutting them off just before they enter the jagged entrance to the breeding dens. 

Small for a Hungarian Horntail, Harry reckons, is not nearly small enough. The beast must be over 30 feet in length and several tons in weight. Harry, with his significant lack of experience, has not managed to form a trust bond with any of the female dragons housed within the sanctuary. In fact, he’s somehow managed to do quite the opposite. Most of the females despise his presence. Especially this young mother in particular.

A gust of searing hot air huffs from the young female’s nostrils as she places herself firmly at the entrance to the dens, glaring at Harry through slitted yellow eyes. He feels the tight pull of dragonhide at his fingers as he clenches and relaxes his hands at his sides, forcing himself to breathe steadily through his nose. 

In. 

It’s strikingly familiar, the sight of the horned creature glaring at him. 

Out.  

Guarding its newest clutch of eggs.

In.  

Harry is fourteen again. 

Out.

Excited cheers in the stands above him. 

In.  

The hot breath of a Horntail singeing his eyebrows. 

Out.

A spiked tail darting towards him.

In.

A graveyard. 

In.  

A flash of green light. 

In.  

Cedric-

In-

“Harry.” 

A voice slices through the memory, forcing him to finally exhale. Charlie has a gloved hand on his shoulder, turning him carefully away from the guarded entrance of the breeding dens. His eyebrows are knitted together, slightly, a look of concern just barely flickering across his warm brown eyes. This isn’t a particularly rare occurrence, for Harry to panic at the sight of the Horntail. Still, it’s just as frustrating after a year of working at the sanctuary as it was the first time it happened. 

Harry growls, tugging the tight gloves from his hands as he stalks away from the dens, from the dragon, from Charlie. The other wizard follows him silently.

Even after a year of training under Charlie as an apprentice, Harry is nowhere near as skilled as the other dragon keepers. He has only ever entered the breeding dens a handful of times, rarely even able to assist the other keepers in feeding the hatchlings. As passionate as he is about protecting and caring for the creatures, he has yet to gain the trust of any of the mothers. More frustratingly, he hasn’t managed to form a trust bond with any of the dragons under their care, not even one of the male Antipodean Opaleyes- the least aggressive of all dragon breeds. While some of the dragons at least tolerate him, a few even seeking his presence on rare occasions, none have formed a trust bond strong enough for him to ride them. 

Harry doesn’t think he’s much of a dragon keeper at all, if he can’t even ride a dragon.

The Chosen One. The Saviour. The Boy Who Lived. Twice. 

More like the boy who can’t even get this right, who can’t even ride a dragon after a year of training, despite the fact that he has literally done it before . 

If Hermione were here, she would say that clinging to an Ukrainian Ironbelly as it tore through Gringotts didn’t really count as “riding” a dragon.

But she isn’t here. Harry hasn’t spoken to her in over a year.

“Harry.” Charlie’s voice cuts through his thoughts again. 

“Charlie.” He answers, sharply. 

The older Weasley brother is as patient with Harry as he is with a female Chinese Fireball- a breed of dragon known to be notoriously short-tempered. Harry is grateful, even if he doesn’t always show it. 

“She can sense your agitation,” Charlie says, his voice deep and warm like the embers of a dragon’s nest.

“I’m not agitated.”

Charlie’s lips press together tightly as he tilts his head, watching Harry carefully. Harry is pacing, gloves in one hand, discarded cloak in the other. He always overheats rather quickly within the walls of the sanctuary.

“You’re too anxious. There’s far too much on your mind. She can tell.”

Harry just huffs an exasperated sigh. There’s always too much on his mind. 

“You need to learn to control your emotions. To relax. Trust goes both ways, with dragons, and you’re always far too-”

“Apprehensive. I know.” 

Charlie approaches him again, reaching up a gloved hand to ruffle Harry’s already messy dark curls. Harry’s cheeks warm- from the heat of the sanctuary, of course, nothing else- as he turns to look up at the older man.

“A healthy amount of caution is always best when working with dragons, Harry. And I’ve seen how much confidence, knowledge, and skill you’ve developed in just a year as my apprentice. But it's also clear that you’re nervous around the mothers and the hatchlings,” Charlie says. “Understandably so,” he adds.

Harry grits his teeth. Of course he’s bloody nervous around the young dragons and their mothers. He’s watched several keepers make one wrong move in front of a mother and receive rather nasty burns in return. And, despite all his best efforts, he can hardly approach one of the females without his mind involuntarily flashing back to the first task of that dreaded Triwizard Tournament-

“You’re exceptionally talented with the injured dragons when they’re recovering with the healers.” 

Harry pauses.

This isn’t necessarily untrue. Harry can at least acknowledge that. In the past year, he’s more often found himself working with the dragon healers than anyone else at the sanctuary. At the very least, the injured dragons do seem to tolerate him. He’s not sure why the recovering dragons- creatures that are often at their most vulnerable- are able to trust him more easily than the mothers in the breeding dens. He reckons it’s a small blessing. It’s the one thing he’s managed to excel at, during his apprenticeship. 

“Perhaps you could work with the healers today?” Charlie suggests. “I’m sure they would appreciate your assistance. I can handle the dens for the morning.”

Harry sighs. It will be a quiet morning, then. There aren’t many injured dragons in the recovery wing. He certainly isn’t upset about that fact- the fewer injured dragons, the better. And he had theorized it might be a calm day only just that morning, during their walk to the sanctuary. 

But he had hoped, just as he did most days, that today would be different. That he would be able to work with Charlie in the dens. That he might form a trust bond with one of the dozens of dragons within the sanctuary wards. That he could feel the rush of adrenaline and excitement that came with soaring through the skies again. 

It had been a long time since he had last flown. 

One day, perhaps.

It’s only been a year since he arrived at the sanctuary. It took some of the dragon keepers years to bond with and ride a dragon.

It had taken Charlie Weasley only four months.

A wry smile twisted across Harry’s lips. To the recovery wing, then. 

Harry is greeted enthusiastically by the healers when he arrives at their wing of the sanctuary.

“Zdrasti, Harry!” 

A tall, rather muscular woman with pale skin and dark hair welcomes him first. Aleksandra Petrova is one of the most experienced dragon healers, having worked at the sanctuary for nearly twenty years. Before joining the sanctuary, she had been a student at the Durmstrang Institute in Norway. 

Despite speaking both English and Norwegian, Harry has noticed that she prefers to greet him in her mother tongue, Bulgarian. He’s spent enough time with the skilled healer to recognize the greeting and to have a response readily prepared.

“Dobro utro, Aleksandra.”

She noticeably chuckles at his poor accent. Harry suppresses an urge to roll his eyes. Just because he knows a handful of words doesn't mean he’s actually any good at speaking the language…

“Bonjour, Harry! Ça va?” Another voice welcomes him from across the warm cave. 

Clément Bernard, a thin man with dark skin and even darker eyes. He’s worked as a healer at the sanctuary for just over four years. Originally from France, the young man actually studied at the Ilvermorny School of Witchcraft and Wizardry in North America. Despite knowing English nearly as fluently as Harry or Charlie, the wizard insists on speaking to Harry in French whenever possible. Something about the accent sounding pleasant when it came from Harry’s lips, or something of the sort. Harry doesn’t actually understand French all that well, and although Clément had once explained his reasoning for the peculiar habit in his own mother tongue, Harry never bothered trying to translate it. He just entertains him when he can.

“Salut, Clément. Any new patients this morning?”

Clément huffs a dramatic sigh of relief from where he is crouched next to a box of various vials and potions, shaking his head slightly. 

“Fortunately, Harry, I cannot say that we have any new injuries to report today. The keepers have not caught any injured beasts beyond the sanctuary walls and by Merlin’s blessing, none of our own have managed to hurt themselves in the night.”

“I suppose that is a good thing, is it not, Harry?” Aleksandra asks with a knowing smile. 

In the many months that they’ve worked together, the witch and wizard have picked up on Harry’s frustrations with boredom and any semblance of quiet fairly quickly. Fortunately for him, they’ve learned how to keep him content and busy.

“Would you like to check on Lilje? I believe her dressings may need to be replaced,” she adds. 

Harry agrees immediately, gathering the necessary dragonhide bandages and solvents to care for the older dragon’s wounds.

Lilje is one of the oldest dragons at the sanctuary, a Norwegian Ridgeback who had been rescued from near-death just over three months prior. Clément theorized her to be nearly two hundred years old, particularly due to the dull browning of her otherwise rusty red scales. She had been the first dragon to trust Harry immediately and wholeheartedly, allowing him to feed and care for her without so much as a huff of hot air. She actually showed noticeable excitement at seeing the young wizard, ears perking up and wings fluttering whenever she saw him. It wasn’t a trust bond- she was far too old to form such a bond, and he would never attempt to ride her- but it brought Harry some comfort that at least one of the dragons could trust him. 

Aleksandra had suggested that Harry be the one to name her.

Harry had immediately chosen to name her Lilje. Lily, in Norwegian. 

He carries the bandages and potions silently across the recovery wing, towards one of many dragon nests carved deep into the wall of the cave. This one, unlike most of the others, is actually occupied by one of the sleeping creatures.

“Good morning, Lilje,” Harry greets her loudly. He waits outside of the dark nest as the shadow of a large dragon stirs, patiently allowing her some time to wake and gain her bearings. 

A reddish-orange snout peaks out of the small cave, nostrils flaring as she breathes in his scent. Harry smiles as a soft rumble begins to vibrate the stone at his feet. The vibrations that dragons summon within their chest when they are happy had once made him nervous. It’s loud, like the rumble of a motorbike, and jarring when one isn’t expecting to hear it. It wasn’t until Charlie described it like the purring of a contented cat that Harry came to look forward to the noise.

Lilje moves slowly, bringing her head fully out from the dark cave and into the warm light of the recovery ward. She presses her snout firmly into Harry’s chest, releasing a contented huff of warm air that slightly heats the dragonhide of his robes. Harry places his bundle of bandages and potions carefully on the floor before raising both hands to rub the top of her horned snout. 

Her eyes are a deep green, so dark that they could almost be black if it wasn’t for the warm glow of the magically illuminated cave. She’s watching him lazily, slitted eyes laced with sleep. Harry can’t suppress the smile that the sight pulls across his lips. Dragons are far more expressive than he had ever expected, and the more time he spends with them, the more he notices just how intelligent they truly are. It frustrates him to no end, how the creatures are seen as mindless monsters throughout the wizarding world. 

“I’m going to change the dressings for your wounds now, alright, Lilje?”

The dragon, obviously, doesn’t respond. Harry never expects them to. But all of the sanctuary workers- researchers, healers, and keepers alike- speak to the creatures as if they can understand them. And the rumbling purrs grow marginally louder as Lilje pulls herself further from the cave to allow Harry access to her injuries. 

Across the leathered skin of her left wing, there are dozens of jagged slashes that split the sensitive flesh into gaping holes. When the dragon keepers had discovered her three months prior, barely alive, she had been starved and bleeding on a rocky stretch of Norwegian countryside. It had taken several keepers to transport her safely to Romania, and by the time she had arrived at the sanctuary, the healers were unsure if she would survive her injuries.

Harry is rather glad she didn’t succumb to her wounds. 

But it is unlikely that she will ever fly again, a fact which anguished the healers. A flightless dragon, one beyond the power of magic to help, is a distressing sight. To render a dragon flightless is one of the worst committable crimes, in the eyes of the sanctuary workers. It's the reason why so many of the dragon keepers spend hours each day scouting for injured dragons and poachers across the continent.

It brings him some comfort that Lilje is old, for a dragon. That she spent the vast majority of her life soaring the skies. That she will spend the last years of her life warm, well-fed, and cared for within the sanctuary.

Harry carefully vanishes the dragonscale bandages that cover the edges of the gaping wounds. He hums absentmindedly, stroking the velvet flesh of Lilje’s wing with his free hand as he inspects the injuries. They had stopped bleeding months ago, though they are still scabbed in some areas. It’s a difficult area of flesh to heal, since dragon wings move so dynamically.

“You’re healing quite well, Lilje,” he says softly. He smiles as the dragon turns her head towards him, maneuvering her snout until one large green eye hovers beside his face.

“Hello, darling.” Harry reaches his hand up to stroke the softer flesh at the underside of her neck. He lets out a gentle laugh as the purrs vibrate his hand. 

“I am quite happy to see you as well,” he hums. A warm exhale bursts across him once more, pushing long strands of hair away from his face. 

“I’m going to put some salves on you now, alright? I know it's rather uncomfortable, but bear with me.”

Lilje stills as Harry dips his fingers into a jar of healing salve, placing it carefully along the injured flesh of her wing. The purring quiets, slightly, but it doesn’t entirely go away. Harry feels relieved when she doesn’t pull away or express discomfort.

When he finishes emptying the contents of three healing salve jars along the length of her wing, Harry begins to cover the salve in thin strips of dragonhide bandage. The expanse of her wing is rather large, so it takes him several bundles of the material to fully cover her injuries. It’s difficult work, covering both the bottom and top of her wing in the bandages. Clément has pointed out to him on multiple occasions that he could use magic to dress her wounds instead. But Harry prefers to do it by hand. It’s less uncomfortable for Lilje that way.

By the time he’s finished replacing the dragon’s wounds, ensuring she is otherwise healthy, and offering her several large fish as a treat, it's nearly midday. He excuses himself from the recovery ward for a quick lunch of cabbage rolls and polenta gifted to him by one of his neighbors, a kind elderly witch named Sarmiza, before returning to assist the healers with the remainder of their daily tasks.

Despite the calm of the day, Harry has enough tasks to occupy his mind that the afternoon flies by relatively quickly. It’s not until he hears a rather loud commotion from the center cavern of the sanctuary that he realizes the dragon keepers must have returned from their patrol. Judging by the sounds of panicked yelling and even louder roars echoing all the way to the recovery ward, they’ve managed to recover an injured dragon. 

Harry is summoning supplies before Aleksandra or Clément can even ask, following closely behind the two healers as they run through the tunnels towards the main cavern. He nearly runs right into their backs when the healers freeze at the opening of the tunnel. His breath catches in his throat.

It’s a magnificent, albeit terrifying sight. 

The creature is somewhat small compared to the other dragons at the sanctuary. It’s barely over 20 feet long, much of its length coming from the arrow-shaped spike at the end of its thrashing tail. Its wingspan is more impressive, with bat-like wings that beat heavily at the air around it. 

Harry doesn’t care so much about its size, though. What’s far more intriguing is its distinct coloring.

The dragon is as pure white as the snow surrounding the mountain, bright scales reflecting the trickles of afternoon light above. Harry has never seen a dragon quite so white, almost silver in the light of the cavern. The albino Ukrainian Ironbelly trapped beneath Gringotts had been white, but its coloring was nowhere near as bright and beautiful as the dragon before him. The bright white is a stark contrast to the deep, ruby red blood that stains its flesh. It’s severely injured, clearly, despite the effort and strength it maintains as it tries to escape.

The dragon keepers are struggling to restrain it despite its smaller size, the five wizards and witches shouting haphazard spells in an effort to keep it on the ground. There are heavy, broken chains clamped around its four legs, but they aren’t attached to anything. Poachers, then , Harry thinks. There are scars, jagged and criss crossed, across its belly and along the underside of its neck. It must have been captured for a long time, then. Likely for its rare coloring.

Harry wracks his memory in an effort to remember which dragon breeds could produce such a stark white coloring. Ukrainian Ironbellies could, as he had seen, but this dragon has four legs, so it clearly doesn’t fit the two-legged beast’s classification. Swedish Short-Snouts are often a silvery blue, but this dragon does not have the characteristically short snout of that breed. The Antipodean Opaleyes are known for their beautiful, pearly scales, but that breed also only has two legs where this dragon has four. Perhaps it is a genetic anomaly? He would need to look into the beast's eyes to see if it lacks pupils like the Opaleyes-

The dragon roars loudly once again, its face whipping around the cavern as if searching for a means to escape. Its eyes land on the entrance to the recovery wing, on the healers and Harry’s obscured figure, and Harry gasps. 

The beast is certainly not an Antipodean Opaleye. Its pupils are blown wide, panicked, nearly covering the dark iron gray of its irises. The features of its face are distinct, matching only one of the breeds that they care for at the sanctuary.

“A pure white Hebridean Black,” Aleksandra breathes out. 

Harry has never heard of a Hebridean Black with such a pure, light coloring. Every recorded Hebridean Black in wizarding history displayed the characteristic black or dark gray scales of the breed. More surprising than its coloring are its eyes .

“La barbe de Merlin,” Clément whispers. 

Hebridean Blacks are one of the easiest breeds to identify due to their distinctly purple eyes, a coloring which has never varied across any recorded dragon of that breed. Yet, right in front of them stands a white Hebridean Black with steel gray eyes.

The healers step closer to the dragon, further from the entrance of the tunnel, as the keepers finally manage to restrain the creature by securing the chains around its legs to the stone floor of the cavern. Harry tries not to grimace at the lack of humanity behind the tactic. They generally try to refrain from chaining or restraining the dragons when possible. 

The dragon has stopped struggling, at this point. Its eyes haven’t moved from the entrance to the recovery ward since they landed on the healers. No, he realizes. It isn’t staring at Aleksandra or Clément- this becomes more evident as the healers carefully approach it from the side. The creature is staring directly at Harry Potter, dark gray eyes wide and unblinking.

Harry can’t seem to look away.

He’s never seen a dragon look at him with such emotion, such intellect, with something reminiscent of… recognition. As if the dragon knew him, had seen him before. 

Harry swallows hard when the dragon releases a long, hot exhale through its nostrils, eyes unblinking as they stare at him. Aleksandra and Clément quickly get to work ordering the dragon keepers around, securing each of the dragon’s limbs and its wings so they can safely inspect its wounds. 

The dragon doesn’t move, even when Aleksandra uses a spell to secure an invisible muzzle around its snout. It does release a pained whine, almost a growl, when her hand grazes over the wounds on its back and tail. But still, it doesn’t look away. Harry almost forgets how to breathe, in the minutes that pass between them.

He only looks away when Charlie stands in front of him, blocking the dragon’s eyes from Harry’s line of sight.

“Alright, Harry?” He asks. Charlie’s covered in soot and his eyebrows are singed, likely due to a young hatchling who had been too enthusiastic about dinner, but he’s grinning. Harry has no doubt that the wizard is incredibly excited about the rare creature they’ve managed to bring into the sanctuary. 

“Yeah, I’m fine,” Harry says shortly. He’s too intrigued about the dragon behind Charlie to really care about pleasantries. “Have you ever seen a-”

“A white Hebridean Black? Never. I’ve never come across one in any written records, either.” Charlie finally turns back towards the dragon, standing next to Harry. Harry swallows hard as he glances back at the creature. It still hasn’t looked away.

“It's certainly a rarity. No wonder the poachers had it guarded so securely. I heard from the other keepers that they had to put up quite a fight for him,” Charlie said proudly. He frowns after a moment, looking between the dragon and Harry a few times. His lips purse slightly.

“He must like you,” Charlie says eventually. “Or he wants to kill you.” Charlie laughs, smacking a playful hand against Harry’s shoulder. 

“Right,” Harry breathes. He reckons the latter statement is more likely to be accurate.